


Coterminous

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley goes shopping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coterminous

He wonders what exactly it says about him that he's adopted Angel's  
mode of dress when he has to go out in public.  Dark clothes, long  
dark coat, eyes apparently fixed on his under-shined shoes.  Hands in  
his pockets, which is odd and just a little too American.  His mother  
would be horrified.  Well, perhaps not, but she would be tight-lipped,  
maybe a little disapproving.  She'd have no words for him for a couple  
of days, no eye contact at supper, no cold-skinned brush of her lips  
before he went out.  His father would just walk stalk around behind  
him and pull him upright, keep him held there with his air cut off  
until he straightened his spine and stood properly.

But as Wesley occasionally has to remind himself, he hasn't lived with  
his parents for a long time.  And in the intervening years, he's  
managed to overcome a little of their influence.  He doesn't flinch  
automatically anymore when someone reaches toward him.  He puts as  
much sugar in his tea as he wants.  Sometimes he manages to soften the  
iron rod at the centre of his spine a little.

Grey afternoon light.  Cloudy for southern California.  Hauntingly  
dark for the unnervingly sunny home of the Hellmouth.

He came up partly on a whim, partly on a quest, and carefully didn't  
tell Angel he was going.  Angel, he understands, is semi-officially  
banished from the Slayer's domain, as she is from his.  Which is  
probably for the best, since they only seem to get under one another's  
skin.  But a few times, especially this year as the dreams of Darla  
progressively took over Angel's psyche, he would have been grateful  
for the distraction she so easily provides.

He doesn't call her Buffy unless he has to.  It's her name, he knows  
that, but it's silly and childish, and he can't imagine what her  
parents were thinking when they gave it to her.  "Faith" at least, had  
the correct aura of power and violence.

It doesn't do to think about that, really.  Rather makes his skin  
crawl.

He does have a mission, though.  He needs a Callah Orb.  And he's been  
referred from shop to shop along the San Andreas looking for one.    
Until the last storekeeper, middle-aged, female, and vague as she was,  
pointed him towards Rupert Giles' current enterprise.  In one of her    
more lucid moments, she even called over and determined that Rupert  
did, indeed, have one in stock.  And would be holding it for him until  
he came to pick it up, Mister . . .

"Pryce."  Because if he was lucky, he could miss Rupert completely,  
deal with the shop assistant and be gone before anyone noticed him.

Long minute sitting on his bike before he walks inside.  Just  
breathing deeply and spell-casting shallowly, looking for Giles' aura  
and not finding it.  Safe passage, then.

The girl at the counter is entirely too cheerful, and a little off-  
balancing.  She scrutinizes Wesley openly, trying to place him, until  
he offers her the money as a distraction.  He remembers her, a little  
\-- the vengeance demon from the Slayer's graduating class, candid and  
clever and terrifying and utterly unsocialized.  He has the feeling  
that she might comment on anything.  His clothes, for instance, and  
how awkward he looks in them.  His removal from the Watchers, if she  
knows about it.  His sexual preference, perhaps.  Loudly and clearly,  
for all the world to understand.  Innuendo is quite beyond her.

There's a soft footfall behind him, and the rustle of a coat, but he  
doesn't look over his shoulder.  All he has to do is take his over-  
wrapped parcel and leave.

"Hello, ducks."  

Bugger it.

All the iron rod he'd managed to work out of his spine is right back.    
He waits for the girl at the counter to look afraid, but she only  
blinks a little and goes back to counting the money in the till.    
Humming a little.  For a moment, he thinks he can hear her singing  
*money-money-money-money, money-money-money-money* before he shakes it  
off.

There's a cold nose pressed against his neck.  "You smell like Angel.    
Where do I know you from?"

Small, cold hands turn him around.  There's a small, cold vampire on  
the end of the arms attached to the hands.  Brown eyes, wonderfully  
sharp cheekbones.  Quite lovely, really.  Enough that Wesley's glad  
he's wearing the coat, if only because it conceals his body's  
reaction.

"Um, hello . . ."

"Spike," the girl supplies.  Her name, her name, he knows this . . .  
Anya.  Right.

"Spike."  William the Bloody.  Indoors, with them, with him pinned  
against the counter.  

His hand's halfway to the stake in his coat when Anya says, "Leave  
Spike alone.  He can't hurt you.  They had him fixed."

"*Fuck* you, luv."

She flashes him the finger and goes back to her counting.

Wesley looks at Spike, who's stood back from him and is currently just  
watching.  There's more than a little threat in his posture, but it's  
only effective if you believe in his power to hurt you.  Rather the  
opposite of Angel, who manages to look almost as ineffectual as Wesley  
does, but might hurt you very badly if he deems it necessary.

Spike spreads his arms in a nothing-up-my-sleeves gesture and smiles  
at him.  It's not a pleasant smile.  It might only be British teeth,  
but he does appear to have startling incisors even in human face.

"Who are you, ducks?"

"Wesley."

"Mmm.  Wyndham-Pryce.  The Slayer's second watcher.  Why do you smell  
like Angel?"

"That I couldn't tell you."  Or won't, at any rate.  Not going to  
announce in the slayer's country anything about the nights he's spent  
sprawled on Angel's couch while the demon-cold mouth rubbed all over  
him.  Not going to say anything about last night, on his knees, with  
Angel's cock down his throat and those huge hands curling into his  
hair.

If he can step past Spike, he can go.  The aura spell he cast earlier  
is starting to scream at him, which means Rupert's within striking  
distance.  There's not even anything wrong with the man, but Wesley  
desperately doesn't want to deal with him.  Too British for him to  
cope with at the moment.

Odd, then, that Spike isn't.  Perhaps because the East-End accent is  
so perfect that all of Wesley's instincts scream that it's fake.    
Affected.  Under it, there's something softer and genteel that's been  
almost entirely thrown away.  And that, perhaps, is as attractive as  
the stone-cut cheekbones and bedroom eyes.  

Spike leans in and nuzzles him again, briefly.  If he shoved hard,  
Wesley could have him out in the sunshine, but there isn't any threat  
in Spike's gesture.  He's only . . . smelling.  Short, shallow breaths  
like an animal scenting.  Almost warm, though perhaps that's the  
residual sunlight affecting his vampire body, and almost friendly.    
Behind them, Anya has stopped her counting, and her breathing is a  
little ragged.  Watching them and.  Something.  He doesn't want to  
imagine what tack her thoughts might be taking.

Sharp, pale lips lock onto his suddenly.  Cool the way the dead must  
be cool, more pliant than Angel's have ever been.  Tentative and  
unthreatening, then demanding, and finally very, very deep.  Spike's  
tongue in his mouth, questing towards his back teeth.  Wrapping around  
Wesley's own tongue.  Licking.  Sweet-edged mouth softening and  
tensing against his, making a marvellous seal that holds them  
together.

Three fingers trace the line of his face while their mouths are  
locked.  Not even moving him, only feeling for the line of his  
profile.

By the time Spike pulls away, Wesley is unashamedly panting, and  
desperately hard.  Gasping desperately enough that his abdominals ache  
faintly.  He keeps forgetting this, that vampires don't need to  
breathe, that they forget that humans do, or perhaps don't forget and  
rather inflict that difference as some kind of subtle show of power.

"Oh my.  Wesley?"  Rupert Giles in the doorway, groceries spilled at  
his feet.  A single grapefruit rolls towards Spike's scuffed combat  
boot.

Spike doesn't turn.  He flashes Wesley a grin full of incisors and  
whispers, "You taste like Angel.  Tell me why sometime."  Turns and  
leaves in a swirl of leather.  Not outside, but down into some darker  
place in the shop, where he must oddly be welcome.

Leaving Wesley to try to meet Rupert's eyes and determine what he's  
going to say next.  He wonders if it wouldn't be better to let Anya  
air her version of the story first, because no matter how tactless it  
might be, it has to be better than anything he could generate.  He  
can't explain himself at all.  Just holds the wrapped, undamaged  
crystal in both hands and rolls it gently back and forth.  Rolls his  
tongue back and forth in his mouth, thinking about how different two  
vampires of the same line can taste.  

Just thinking.  Making himself wonder.


End file.
